


melting prints of grass and snow

by serenlyall



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Violence, anyway, but i tried okay, glorthelion, have some glorthelion feels. i did, i mean. not a lot i guess, idk how good i am at writing pining, there's some real pining in here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22832875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenlyall/pseuds/serenlyall
Summary: As they approach the shores of Aman, Glorfindel reflects on his life, and his relationship with Ecthelion.
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel
Comments: 11
Kudos: 74





	melting prints of grass and snow

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as an exchange piece for magpiecrown on tumblr. I don't think they've posted the art piece they did for me yet (if they will at all), but it was beautiful, and I loved it, so I do hope they post it so the rest of the world can see it! Anyway, I hope you all can enjoy this little bit of Glorthelion I wrote for them in exchange!

_So think real slow_   
_Don't forget that yes is yes and no is no_   
_Melting prints of grass and snow_   
_Means I may forget the way to get back home_   
_'Cause this is the end if you want it_   
_This is the end_

_You're not the first thing in my life I've loved and lost_   
_Yeah I've thought worse things that_   
_I might be less inclined to merely just shrug off_

_You'll take me home_   
_Like my family did my father did I know_   
_You'll think real slow_   
_But don't forget the speed that I can go away_   
_'Cause this is the end if you want it_   
_Yeah this is the end_

-(If You Want It) by Relient K

* * *

melting prints of grass and snow

Glorfindel stands at the prow of the ship and watches as the smudge of land on the horizon grows nearer.

What will he do when he arrives, he wonders. Who would be there to greet him? A mother and father he had forsaken long ago, and again even longer before that? A brother and a sister who he had been dead to for too many millennia? A king he had foresworn for the king’s own grandson?

A lover who had never even been a lover?

Glorfindel closes his eyes and lifts his face to the breeze and the setting sun. It shines red and heavy on the western edge of the world, the clouds streaked against the pale blue sky shining dull red and burning orange.

How long has it been? How long since he had stepped foot in the Blessed Realm? How long since he had hugged his father, kissed his mother, laughed with his brother and elbowed his sister? How long since he had knelt before a king and pledged his loyalty?

How long since he had seen Ecthelion’s face in anything other than a painting made in his likeness?

Too long.

Glorfindel opens his eyes. The horizon is nearer—ever nearer, ever closer, along with his future, his past, his doom—and was more than just a smudge of shadow against the sun. Now it is a hundred glittering towers that were gleaming needle-points against the sky, a dozen towering walls standing tall and stolid against the sun. It is still too far away to make out distinct buildings, however, or ships in the harbor—or even the harbor itself.

“A copper piece for your thoughts?”

Glorfindel turns to find Elrond standing at his side. His lord’s hands are clasped behind his back, and he is dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, and a loose over-robe meant to keep out the chill of the sea breeze. His eyes are somber, but his lips are curled into a facsimile of a smile.

Sighing, Glorfindel turns back to ponder the horizon. “I doubt it is anything different from what every other person nearing Aman has thought,” Glorfindel says, his tone surprisingly bitter. He smiles then and shakes his head. “Forgive me, Elrond,” he says, turning and lifting a hand to place on Elrond’s shoulder. “I am only lost in past memories and sour wonderings.”

“You will always be welcome in my house,” Elrond says blithely. “You do know that, do you not?”

They had not really spoken of what Glorfindel planned to do once they reached Aman—nor what Elrond would do, after he had presented himself to his king and grandsire, Finwё. There were too many possibilities, and too many factors to be planned for.

Even so, knowing that he would have a place to go, a place to be, a place to _belong_ , is reassuring.

“Thank you, my lord,” Glorfindel says.

Elrond laughs. “Dispense with the formalities, old friend,” he says, and reaches out to grip Glorfindel’s outstretched elbow with his right hand. “You are more than just a seneschal or guardian or warden to me. You have been a friend and brother for longer than I care to count.”

Glorfindel smiles. “Thank you, Elrond,” he says, and grips the younger Elf’s shoulder tightly. “That means a great deal.”

“Now,” says Elrond, taking a step away and out from under Glorfindel’s hand, “I have two Hobbits to attend to and prepare for reaching shore.”

“Understood,” says Glorfindel, and Elrond turns and retreats, leaving Glorfindel alone to his thoughts once more.

~*c*~

i.

He sees him for the first time in the darkness of the Night after the Trees’ death, beneath Varda’s glittering raiment of stars and the bloody light of a thousand torches, amid death and screams and red-capped waves.

His blade is bloodied, his face is smeared with red, his hair drips. He stands over the last Telerin lad he had just cut down, and looks up—and there, standing across from him, is a wild-looking Noldo with straight black hair and glittering, silver eyes. He is shorter than Glorfindel by half a head, but there is a feral look in his eyes and in the set of his mouth that warns Glorfindel that this is not an Elf to be trifled with.

Glorfindel grins, and takes a step back, motioning with his bloodied hands for the Noldo to precede him back into the battle.

“What are we doing?” the Noldo asks, not moving, and the feral look in his eyes sharpens to daggers and needles and ice.

Glorfindel stops. Just—stops.

Then the Noldo lunges past Glorfindel to run a Telerin woman through the chest, just before she hacks Glorfindel’s head from his shoulders.

“I’m Aegthel,” the Noldo will tell him in three hours and five minutes. The blood will still be slick on the docks’ boards, the waves will still crash red, but the wailing of the dying will have turned to the silence of the dead, and the taste of victory—ill-begotten, bitterly-won victory—will be thrumming through their veins.

“Laurefindel,” Glorfindel will say, and they will clasp hands.

And that is the beginning.

ii.

They do not meet again until nearly ten years later, when Aegthel nearly dies.

Glorfindel notices the gash in the ice some few meters before he actually stumbles upon it. It is a glaring mar of black against blue and white, a subtle shift of light against darkness, of shadow against night.

When he does come upon it, he sees that it is a crevasse, opened unexpectedly and morbidly, like a garish mouth crawling open in ice and snow. He looks down into it, expecting to see a body broken or crushed, red, red blood marring black and blue and white in painted stripes of gore.

He does see a body. But, to his surprise, when he comes to a halt, the body’s head moves and looks up at him.

A shock runs through him. He knows the _ellon_ trapped within; he had fought alongside him once, years ago—had been saved by him, from a Telerin woman about to strike his head from his shoulders.

“Aegthel?” he calls, dredging up the memory of the _ellon_ ’s name from the darkest recesses of his mind.

The _ellon_ does not speak, but he reaches a feeble hand up to scrape at the walls of the crevasse. He leaves a long, bloody stripe of red against the ice. His nails, Glorfindel suspects, have been scratched and gouged raw.

“Hold on, Aegthel,” Glorfindel calls, and he turns and yells for help.

Help comes swiftly—or, rather, as swiftly as any help comes now upon the ice. At the beginning, cries for help were common and frequent, and were responded to instantly with leaps and bounds and crashing hearts in throats. Now, though, it comes slowly, like molasses running against frosted stone. Those who could help were too used to seeing the death of the Ice—were too used to being too late.

Even so, within a moment two _llyn_ and an _elleth_ were at Glorfindel’s side, having hurried forward from farther back in the long, straggling train of Elves crawling across the Ice. One carried a makeshift ice pick, while the others bore lengths of rope.

“Quickly,” said Glorfindel, feeling feverish. The weight of the known—and of the unknown—rested upon him. He did not know why, but something within him—something that had spoken before, had prophesied of Darkness coming to the land, had spoken of an eight-legged beast, had spoken of betrayal and blood—screamed at him to _hurry, hurry, HURRY!_

A groan of ice echoed underfoot. Glorfindel looked down at the ground beneath his boots, and saw the ice begin to shift. Beneath them, Aegthel cried out.

“Hurry!” Glorfindel said, grabbing a length of rope from the _elleth_. He stepped up to the edge of the crevasse and, binding one end of the rope around his waist, tossed the other end down toward the trapped Elf.

Aegthel grasped the end of the rope, twisting it around his wrist once, twice, three times. Then, leaning back, Glorfindel took one step, two steps, three steps. Resistance met his efforts, and sweat broke out on his forehead as he strained.

Then three other pairs of hands grasped onto the rope, and together the four of them heaved.

The ice groaned and popped. Beneath them, Aegthel yelled.

Then: movement.

Slowly, inch by inch and step by step, the four of them pulled Aegthel from the ice.

They pulled him free—and with a moan and a snap, the ice closed behind him, the lips of the mouth crashing together.

iii.

They are together when the Sun rises.

Brilliant, golden light spills across the land, frozen loam and thin grass pushing its frosted way through hard soil. In the distance are trees, small and stunted and leafless but still brave, still hardy, still straining toward the heavens.

The dark sky gives way to blue, blue, blue in an ever-encroaching wave. Black turns to orange, turns to yellow, turns to aquamarine as bright as the ocean. The Elves—those few thousand left—gather together in huddles, confused and almost afraid.

Almost.

They have survived too much horror to be truly afraid any longer, even as a great, brilliant, golden eye lifts its head above the horizon.

Glorfindel turns to Aegthel, and Aegthel turns to Glorfindel. His hair catches the dawn light, and it gleams as golden as the Sun itself.

Aegthel smiles.

iv.

“Are you going?” Glorfindel asks.

Ecthelion—his name, now, is no longer Aegthel, but Ecthelion, thus named by the new, strange tongue of the Sindar—looks up at Glorfindel from his book. They are sitting by the main hearth in the Great Hall of the rustic, hastily constructed Finwёan compound, in chairs hard but spindly. Outside the last spring snow falls, wet and heavy, from a dark grey sky.

He does not have to ask what Glorfindel means. There has been buzzing talk the last few weeks of Turgon’s leaving. All know he is going to construct a great and mighty kingdom of his own—though where, precisely, that kingdom is, none yet know.

“Are you?” Ecthelion asks.

Glorfindel smiles. “I am,” he says.

“Ah,” says Ecthelion. He cants his head to one side, considering. “I confess, I have thought on the matter,” he tells Glorfindel.

“And?” Glorfindel presses when he does not go on.

“My loyalty lies with Fingon.” His eyes, though, bely his words. They are hot and sharp as they rest on Glorfindel.

“Then you are not going,” says Glorfindel, his heart sinking into his stomach. He had hoped—but no. No, this is right. This is best. Ecthelion must be allowed to choose his own path. Glorfindel cannot dictate his life, or his walk.

“I did not say that,” says Ecthelion evenly. “Only that my loyalty—currently—lies with Fingon.”

“I had only hoped—I mean to say that—I wanted…” Glorfindel trails off, at a loss of what to say, unsure of what he even _wants_ to say. What he _needs_ to say.

Ecthelion smiles. “That does not mean I cannot leave him and enter into the service of another. My life is my own, my path my own, my walk my own. Fingon knows this. Fingon has accepted that of all his vassals. I am not particularly high-ranking, nor needed in Fingon’s host. I _can_ leave.”

“But will you?”

And Ecthelion smiles. There is something in his face, in his eyes, in the cant of his lips, that he does not say. If he was romantic, if he was delirious, if he was hopeful, Glorfindel would think it said, _For you_ , “Yes.”

v.

In Gondolin, they spar daily at dawn. The practice courts start out empty, but by the time a month of this practice has passed, the fences are filled with spectators, old and young alike.

They laugh when they are done, dripping sweat and flushed and bright-eyed. They clasp arms, and embrace, their swords at their sides, and then go off to their admirers who carry towels and water for them.

“Brother,” Glorfindel calls Ecthelion—though there is another word he yearns to call him. A word he will not allow himself to give name to just yet.

“Brother,” Ecthelion echoes, though there is something in his eyes, in his face, in the cant of his lips, that says something Glorfindel cannot name either.

vi.

They arrive at the battlefield to thunder and lightning and the blowing of a thousand glorious horns.

The host of Gondolin strikes Morgoth’s host in an arrow formation, Turgon in the lead and his captains arrayed behind him, with their houses at their backs. Glorfindel is beside Ecthelion, who is beside Turgon in turn, and together they cleave their way through the first ranks of pike men who had not even had time to get their polearms into position before the cavalry struck.

Glorfindel is unhorsed, his steed slain beneath him by a deft thrust of a halbard. He flies through the air as his mount ploughs into the earth, dead before her knees strike the churned and bloody dirt, landing with a clatter of armor and weapons. He staggers to his feet—just in time to watch as Ecthelion cuts his way through the throng toward a far-distant point of fire and rage.

Turning, Glorfindel follows. He hacks, parries, slashes, deflects. He runs an Orc through the chest, disembowels another, strikes the head from a third. He kills a fourth, a fifth, a sixth—and then he loses count as the bodies mount behind him.

But still, Ecthelion is before him.

And then Ecthelion vanishes, his own mount out from beneath him.

“No!” Glorfindel cries, and he throws himself forward—only to be halted by a massive, hulking Troll.

He does not know what happens to Ecthelion. All he knows is that, five hours and sixteen minutes later, he will find Ecthelion lying in a boneless pile seven yards from Fingon’s body, more than half-dead and barely breathing. All he knows is that it will take Ecthelion a year to recover from his wounds fully—that it will be a year before they can spar again as they once did. All he knows is that he will stay by Ecthelion’s side until the end, until he can either stand again or until he passes into Mandos’s care.

All he knows is that he will never, never, never abandon his friend. His brother. His—something.

vii.

Tuor and Idril come to them in the dead of night. They are playing chess by candlelight when a knock comes at the door. When Glorfindel opens it, he bows low to his princess and to his prince, and ushers them inside. They are cloaked, and do not remove their hoods until they are within Glorfindel’s rooms and the door is closed.

“What is this about?” Ecthelion asks, once everyone is settled at the table and wine has been poured.

“We believe there is woe coming upon this city,” says Tuor, after sharing a glance with his wife.

“There is danger on the air and in the stones,” says Idril. “I have dreamt of it many times now.”

“What, then, do we do?” Ecthelion asks. He does not question their belief—and neither does Glorfindel, who only nods and leans forward in his chair, wine goblet forgotten in his hand.

“We have begun construction of a tunnel through the mountains,” says Idril. “It will be finished within the year.”

“We only hope it is done in time,” says Tuor.

“Will you show us?” asks Glorfindel, standing and abandoning his goblet beside the chessboard.

The walk through the city is furtive and silent. All four are hooded in dark cloaks, and they move swiftly from shadow to shadow. They reach a cellar beneath the outermost wall—and there, upon moving a crate, Tuor shows them a trapdoor in the floor.

When it is opened, it reveals a dark hole and a sturdy ladder. When they descend, Glorfindel finds bundles of torches, rope, lanterns, and digging tools.

“How far does it go?” Ecthelion asks.

“We are nearly out into the open air,” says Idril. “Then we will strengthen the path leading through last of the mountains and out to the plains beyond.

“Good,” says Glorfindel with approval. He turns to Tuor and Idril, and with Ecthelion standing by his side, says, “Thank you for telling us. We will not betray your trust.”

viii.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion stand on the parapet of the main wall, facing the dawn, hand-in-hand, as the light rises in the east. Their thoughts are filled with the night before—of the confessions they had made, of the truths they had laid bare, of the soft kisses they had shared.

Only the sun does not rise in the east that day.

That day, the light rises in the west.

ix.

Glorfindel wanders through vast Halls. The walls are hung with tapestries, the floors are cool and made of an unknown stone, the ceilings are lost to shadow. He passes no one, and no one passes him; he is alone, utterly and entirely. All he sees are flickers of shadow, shades of pearl and mist that are gone as soon as he tries to look at them.

He wants Turgon. He wants Gondolin. He wants his mother, his father, his brother and sister. He wants—he wants…

He wants Ecthelion.

A doorway appears before him. He turns away from it, not wanting to go through it, not wanting to know what lies for him beyond it.

Before him, a doorway appears.

Again, Glorfindel turns. And again, the doorway appears before him.

Glorfindel closes his eyes, his shoulders sagging. Then he looks up, eyes bright and flashing, shoulders squared, and he marches through it.

He finds himself in a massive throne room. The beams of the ceiling overhead are hung with more tapestries and trailing silk streamers; the walls are woven into the tales of the Elves of all of Arda, from the beginning to destruction of Morgoth and after—though what those events portray, Glorfindel is unsure of.

Two thrones stand before him on a dais, made of black marble. On them sit two massive, terribly glorious figures. One, he knows, is Námo. The other, he suspects, is Vairё, though he has never seen her in this form before. On their heads rest crowns, and in their hands are scepters.

Glorfindel bows low.

“Stand,” commands Námo, and Glorfindel straightens.

“I have a task for you,” says Námo.

“And what is that task?” asks Glorfindel.

“It is the task of guarding Middle-earth once more.”

Glorfindel looks up at the two Valar, and his heart sinks. Is not his duty done? Are not his hardships over? Has he not done enough already? Has he not sweat enough, bled enough—died enough? What more does he owe Middle-earth and its denizens?

“Why me?” Glorfindel asks.

“Because you are uniquely capable,” says Vairё.

Glorfindel shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, I—”

He wants Ecthelion.

“You will see him again,” says Vairё, and her voice is surprisingly gentle.

“But only after how long?” Glorfindel asks, and he is ashamed at how pleading his voice sounds.

“Before the end,” promises Námo.

Glorfindel shakes his head again. “I do not want to wait. I want quiet, and peace, and to live with the man I love for the rest of eternity.”

“And you can have that,” says Námo. “But if you do that, Middle-earth is doomed.”

“But Morgoth is destroyed!” Glorfindel protests. “What other evil could befall and beset Middle-earth?”

“Sauron was not defeated,” says Vairё. “He yet remains, and grows in power and evil.”

Glorfindel’s shoulders slump. He looks at the floor. He closes his eyes.

“What must I do?”

x.

He leaves without seeing Ecthelion, who has yet to be reembodied. He mourns, silent but fierce, and vows that he will never forget nor betray the man he loves—the man who loves him.

He only hopes, hopes, _hopes_ , that Ecthelion will not forget him either. Will not forsake him. Will not give up hope on him.

~*c*~

The docks of Valinor are filled with Elves. As the ship makes port, a great cheer arises from more than a thousand throats, and fists are raised high in the air. The sound is mighty indeed, and Glorfindel feels a chill race up and down his spine.

Galadriel departs first, Celeborn at her side. She is welcomed with a fresh wave of cheers, and in an instant she hugged by a daughter she had long-missed, a brother she had long-mourned, and a father she had long-lost. Her mother and her other brothers are by her side, laughing and smiling and awaiting their turn.

Gandalf goes next. There are bows as Olórin makes his reentrance to Valinor, and then a second cheer goes up, for a hero welcomed home. Two Maiar standing in the crowd, notable for their height and their grandeur, appear and move forward to take Gandalf into embraces, and then to pull him away, through the crowd, toward some unknown destination.

Then Elrond. The greatest cheer yet goes up, as the Last Prince of both the Noldor and the Sindar arrives. His wife throws herself at him. They kiss, long and deep, and he embraces her like a man drowning. When he pulls away at last, the crowd swarms forward to welcome him to their lands.

Then it is Glorfindel’s turn. He steps down the gangplank, wondering again who—if anyone—will be waiting for him.

Will a father he forsook be here? A mother he abandoned? A brother he betrayed? A sister he forgot?

A lover he did not wait for?

The crowd cheers again as his feet step down onto dry land, and he forces a smile and lifts a hand. A second cheer swells at that, and then it dies as all eyes turn to the Hobbits standing last on the ship.

Glorfindel turns and watches them descend, then watches as they are accepted in an instant into the throng, borne down the docks and away toward their new house by helping hands and guiding words.

Turning, Glorfindel scans the crowd. He sees no shock of blond hair for his father, no bright eyes for his mother. He sees no braids for his brother, no dress for his sister. He sees no one for him. No one, not even—

And then there is Ecthelion, standing still amidst the seething crowd.

He is smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to leave a comment! I'd absolutely love to know what you liked or hated about it - or even whether you liked it at all!


End file.
